


omens

by quill_and_parchment



Series: A Sense of Adventure [3]
Category: The Arcana (Visual Novel)
Genre: Drama, Gen, Lost Memories, Tarot, slight angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-09
Updated: 2020-07-09
Packaged: 2021-03-05 02:41:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25167115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quill_and_parchment/pseuds/quill_and_parchment
Summary: I. The MagicianEsme has a mysterious visitor.
Relationships: Apprentice/Julian Devorak, Julian Devorak/Original Female Character(s)
Series: A Sense of Adventure [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1820728
Kudos: 1





	omens

The door to the shop closes with a little bit of a squeak. _Hinges need oiling again_ , Esme thinks absentmindedly. First Asra had left, gifting her his tarot deck, and then she’d had the privilege of the Countess’ company. A busy night, a busy tomorrow ahead, and -

“Strange hours for a shop to keep.” Harsh, muffled. All her nerves fly on high alert. She has the distinct feeling of eyes on her, watching her, and - _something else, someone else, important_. Her eyes flick around the shop, appraising every shadow.

“...Behind you.” She whirls around, braids flying, and lets out a cry of surprise. A figure is looming against the door, dark and foreboding and lanky. They are taller than her by a fair bit - at least six inches, she would guess, but maybe more - and she swallows nervously.

“So this is the witch’s lair.” Cloaked in black and silver - the colors of the night - but what draws her eye is the red of his open cloak, and the mask, beaked, with red lenses that glint coldly in the lantern light. A plague mask. “Then...who might _you_ be?”

The figure leans away from the door, begins to come towards her. Her heart pounds, but she holds her ground, lifts her chin defiantly. (She remembers, in the past, Asra pulling her out of trouble that she went to go find, and here’s some more trouble that’s found _her_.) “Who’s asking?” she snaps.

“I’m asking,” they snap back, faintly exasperated and hardened. “I’d rather not do it again.”

“Then show yourself.” A tug at the back of her mind, in the space where her memories are gone, and, “I don’t negotiate with cowards who don’t show their face.”

A dark chuckle. “You’re a spitfire, aren’t you? Alright, then. I will.” The squeak of twisting leather makes her wince as the stranger pulls off their mask and lets it drop to the floor. Underneath, a pale face - expressive, defiant, with beaked nose, grey eyes (or rather _eye_ , as the other one is covered with a patch) - and a thick shock of curly auburn hair above. “You know who I am, don’t you?”

She doesn’t. He seems familiar, but she can’t quite put her finger on it. _Wanted poster_ , she thinks, but can’t recall any text that may go with the face. The name is utterly missing.

“No matter. Quickly now, _where is the witch?_ ” His face morphs into a snarl, he bends over her to stare into her face, and still Esme is not afraid of him in the least.

_He doesn’t know me - it’s Asra he wants. Why?_

“Master Asra is gone. I don’t know where, he never tells me.” Her voice is hard; she crosses her arms.

His expression changes briefly, to confused, and he mouths the word “Master”, then his face clears and she senses the threat is gone. “Well. If you don’t know, and _I_ don’t know…why don’t we ask your magic cards?”

Cards? She blinks, and if she didn’t have questions before she certainly does now. “How do you know I have tarot cards?” she asks, warily. The cards in question begin to tug on her consciousness from her pocket; they want to speak. He waves a thick leather glove dismissively.

“The witch must have taught you some tricks, given you some gifts. Well? After you, then.” He waits, and she relents, parting the curtains to the back room. She doesn’t know his motives, but he’s officially become a customer, and she never says no to those. More importantly, the cards don’t want her to say no.

The lantern overhead casts the room in light blue as periwinkle flowers as Esme settles onto the pouf by the window and places the deck on the table. (The fabrics are falling off it again, and she straightens them first.) Her visitor drops into the opposite chair (all mismatched in here), looming over the table. “Go on. No need to be shy.” He has become much friendlier in a matter of moments, face casual and tone light.

“I don’t know your name.” She is shuffling the cards without thinking, voices overlapping in her mind.

“My name?” He raises an eyebrow, and she can see wariness and mischief warring on his face. “Now why would you need to know that? Can’t I be just a spectre in the night?”

“For your reading,” she says with gentle emphasis. “I always need a name for a reading.”

“Oh.” He clears his throat, and is he a little embarrassed? “Right, yes, of course. You can call me Julian.”

_Julian_ , she whispers, and the cards whisper it amongst themselves. She has him cut the deck and pick a half, cut it again and pick again, and she spreads the cards out in an elegant fan on the table. She closes her eyes, slides three towards her, and feels for a pull. Nothing, nothing, and then...something. Quick as a spark, she grabs it, flips it, and her mind races. “Death,” a black horse, skull-headed with a scythe in his hand. Its voice is a mere whisper, faint as the breeze, and she strains to hear - 

“Death?” Julian is stunned, face slack, eyes wide, but only for a moment. “ _Death?_ ” His laugh is harsh, rough, and his eyebrow quirks with disbelief as he raises his eyes to the heavens. “Death cast her gaze on this wretch and turned away,” he says, face again transformed into a snarl. ”She has no interest in an abomination like me.” _Dramatic_ , she thinks. He rises from his chair and strides out of the room, and she hastily gathers the cards and follows on his heels.

“Wait! That’s not what Death means. It’s - “ But Julian heaves a heartfelt sigh and shakes his head, tossing his hair. _An omen of change, and for you, for the better._

“No, my fate is sealed. But you’ve been hospitable, so I’ll let you in on a secret.” He leans close, conspiratorially, and the scents of fresh leather, musk, and low tide wash over Esme, worms into her nose and her lungs. It’s almost familiar. “Your witch friend will be back. He has taught you some tricks after all. You may even say he cares for you.” He pulls away, lifts his mask from the floor, and stares into its glassy eyes for a moment, looking for all the world like he belongs on a stage holding a skull instead. “But when he returns,” and his voice is dark with foreboding, “Seek me out, for your own sake. Don’t let him fool you, shopkeep.”

He stares her down, with a long, hard look, and she stares back. Finally he pulls the mask on again, fixing it in place. When he speaks again, his voice is harsh and muffled, and it seems like no time has passed. “Well then. The hour is late, and I’m out of time.” With a swirl of his great black overcoat (the inside flashes her, red, like a dangerous snake’s underbelly), he throws the door open, disappearing into the early morning fog.


End file.
